


On Strike Against God

by BookSlut1994



Category: 18th Century CE RPF, Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Angst, Biphobia, Boys being sad, Canon Era, Hurt No Comfort, Multi, Period-Typical Homophobia, Prostitution, Self-Harm, Self-Hatred, hurt people managing themselves badly, religion being used for bad
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-25
Updated: 2017-01-25
Packaged: 2018-09-19 20:33:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,361
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9459398
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BookSlut1994/pseuds/BookSlut1994
Summary: “Do you think in another world, in another life we could be happy?” Soldier-boys are cruel, tomcats do cry, everything hurts.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Because this probably needs to be said, I’m not trying to use this fic to bash religion or even specifically Christianity (I actually am a religious person (like textbook mainline protestant), so that would be counter-intuitive/weird of me to do. I’m also bi and super-liberal sooo stereotypes are lame and maybe we should stop putting people in boxes, mmkay?). I am using it to discuss how religion can be harmful when intertwined with internalized and externalized prejudices and self-hatred/self-righteousness to create an awful, judgy, self-destructive mess. Personally, I see religion more as a channel for a person’s philosophies and moral beliefs that can be good or bad or fulfilling or destructive, depending on how the person in question uses it. Historical appearances because reasons.   
> Warnings: angst, self-hatred, period-typical internalized homophobia, biphobia, self-harm, religion being used for bad, hurt people managing themselves badly, prostitution, alcohol abuse, and probably some historical inaccuracy because the amount of research I did for this fic was /minimal/. 
> 
> Love y'all as always,  
> BookSlut1994

They’re curled up together, lying in the battlefield-trampled grass, Alex resting his head on John’s stomach, far enough from the dying fires to escape close observation, but close enough not to draw suspicion. From far away, the young men’s position could pass for fraternal, closer, the evidence to the contrary is damning; it’s in their tangled fingers, their tangled hair, the way Alex’s head rests too low on John’s stomach, the way John’s coat isn’t quite buttoned, and Alex’s lips are too red, shiny-slick. The evidence is _damning._ John’s heart races and he tenses, certain that Alex can hear it- traitor organ, battering against his ribcage like a trapped animal, like it wants to break free. He moves his upper body to see, keeping his chin curled to his chest, but his lover remains undisturbed, eyes closed, smiling against John’s uniform jacket, his unpowdered hair shining every shade of red and gold in the dying firelight. John brushes a stray curl back from Alex’s face, and the other man stirs, eyes fluttering open, coming to rest at half-mast, weighed down by his impossibly long lashes.

He’s so pretty that John wants to cry- wants to cry because he wants more than this, wants more, and can’t have it, and shouldn’t anyway. He bites his lip. Hard. Teeth piercing flesh. Punishing himself. The copper tang tastes like misery and shame. It tastes like absolution. It’s a sin for a man to be this pretty; if it’s not it _should_ be. He shoves Alex off, hastily begins re-buttoning his jacket, fucks up because his fingers are trembling too hard, because he’s thinking about Alex, who is lying in the dry grass, staring at John, unblinking. His eyes are pools of hurt.

“Do you think in another world, in another life, we could be happy?”

               John inhales sharply, freezes like a doe caught before a hunter’s rifle, panic bubbling up in his chest and sinking into his bones.  

_“What?”_  His voice, when he finds it, is less steady than he’d like.

 “I said-” he begins again.

“I _know_ what you said.” John cuts him off with a snarl, the words wrenched from his throat with the harshness of shattered glass. He can’t hear that again- doesn’t want to, doesn’t think he could bear it.

“But, do you think…” Alex mumbles, a tiny frown tugging at the corner of his lips. His expression is wide-eyed, babyish, out of place on his sharp, vulpine features. He fiddles with the sleeve of his coat, nervously rubbing the pads of his fingers over the midnight blue wool. He looks _young_ , John realizes. He _is_ young- twenty-two to John’s twenty-five.

John swallows hard, stares at the distant light of the campfire- as if he needed another thing to add to his list of depravities. It’s bad enough that he’s doing this to himself. He doesn’t need to drag Alex down with him- to _corrupt the youth_. He forces himself to look his lover in the eye and tells himself that this is for Alex’s own good.

“No. I don’t.” John’s voice is steady, but his chest hurts.

Alex doesn’t wail, doesn’t scream or break, but his eyes are too shiny. He’s blinking rapidly, scowling furiously, as if the steep downturn of his lips will hide the trembling- and this- this _hurts_ because tomcats don’t cry.

_“But…”_ the word is wrung from Alex’s throat in a soft, wounded-animal whimper and his fists are clenched so tight that the scabbed-over knuckles turn white, and his next words positively _kill_ John.

“It’s because of _Martha_ , isn’t it? Because of _Frances_ ” He spits the names out like curses, like it physically pains him to utter the words.

               John sinks his teeth back into his lower lip, bites down until he tastes copper; his heart is in his throat. He watches as Alex’s eyes widen, liquid spilling over and trailing down his face, and he knew he couldn’t keep this a secret forever, but he hadn’t meant it to come out like _this._

               Alex screws his eyes shut, and when he opens them again, they are red but dry, impossibly long lashes sticking out in wet triangles. “I-I read the letter,” he confesses.

               _And of course, of course he did_ \- clever, meddlesome Alex who had singlehandedly clawed his way out of hell, who didn’t know how to stop reaching for things that he couldn’t have, not even when his soul was on the line, and John _sees-_ sees the way that Alex’s face lights up when a pretty girl walks by. He doesn’t _have_ to be like this- he _has a choice_ \- unlike John, who was _built wrong_. He’s tried- he did try _so fucking hard._ The thought makes John horribly, unreasonably angry, twists in his gut like a stab wound. His low, mirthless laugh bubbles up from his chest and stretches out to the end of the world.

               “That was my letter- _mine!”_  

               Alex simply stares, meeting John’s gaze, his face devoid of contrition. _Brave boy, brave, awful, stupid boy._ Even miserable, he is lovely. “Was she _prettier than me?”_ he demands, “did she _fuck better?”_

               _“Alex!”_  John hisses sharply, hazarding a glance over his shoulder.  They could be _heard_ ; _they could be killed._ He tries to shove a hand over Alex’s mouth and the other man slaps it away.

               He _is_ crying now, shoulders heaving, horrible. “I _hate them_ ,” he sobs, pressing his face into the front of John’s jacket, fingers twisting in the fabric like he can become part of it if he tries hard enough. “fuck _me_ , use _me._ I’ll be better than that cow _, I promise_.”

               John shoves Alex away, harder than he intends, and winces as his lover hits the ground with a thud, landing in the dirt. He forces himself to speak around the lump in his throat, and his voice comes out razor-sharp and vicious. “My baby’s not to blame for what I’ve done. I’ll not have her suffer for her father’s indiscretions.”

               Alex blinks up at him, wide-eyed and hurt, curling his hands to his chest. _“Why?”_ he chokes out.

               “I thought _you_ of all people would understand.”

               Alex flinches like he’s been hit. The words are infused with layers and layers of meaning- _bastard, orphan, son of a whore._ He knows what it’s like to grow up with nothing, belonging to no one. For John to remind him is unconscionably cruel. He shudders, full-bodied, eyes squeezed shut. John _did this to him-_ thought makes him feel like more of a monster than he already is.

               _“That’s_ how it is?”

“Could it be any other way? Do you think another life would make it possible to go against _God?”_  John whispers, crawls towards Alex, tries to brush away the hair that’s sticking to his face.

               Alex trembles. “Fuck you, _fuck you, John Laurens-_ NO! You don’t _get_ to touch me. _”_ He gets to his knees- lightning fast, and bolts.

               When he’s sure Alex is gone, John shatters. He’s certain he’s done the right thing, so _why does it hurt so much?_

\-----

               When John returns to the campfire, he grabs a bottle, and drinks until his head floats up to the stars and the world is comfortably muffled. If anyone notices the conspicuous lack of Alex by his side, they’re tactful enough not to mention it, even as John pours whiskey into the aching black pit in his chest. There’s a peal of laughter- high, feminine, lazy-drunk. John looks up and immediately wishes he hadn’t.

               Alex is standing, swaying and spinning, a too-wide grin cracking his delicate face down the center in a sick parody of happiness. Whatever he’s said, it’s clearly thrilled his companion- she leans in and kisses him, huge tits spilling out of her too-loose top.

               _Whore,_ John thinks viciously, unsure to whom he’s referring- her, him, _himself._  He digs his fingers into his palm and pretends that that hurts more than being John Laurens.

\---

               When John wakes, he finds Alex curled up next to him, tangle-haired and stinking of sex. There are bruises on his neck and tear-tracks on his cheeks. John’s heart clenches.

               _In another world,_ he thinks _, in another life._


End file.
